It is a Sunday that fills its mind with rain and footsteps. Walking down to the park as a rite, coffee as a rite; but it doesn't do what it should, it doesn't mend you a like-new week. It doesn't fix your tired neck that creeks in loose collars. What does a Sunday like this do? It lays you down early and turns off the radio because it was only playing static and you didn't even notice. It puts a glass of water beside the bed and takes your socks off. It says, "I know you want a holiday, but you've just had one, so you're going to have to think about going to bed a little earlier more often".